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Stories don’t need to be new to bring you joy.
The hermit shook his head. “Can’t you hear them? Most things whisper. These things shout.”
“That’s not what I actually said,” the old man murmured. But he did so in a resigned way. Skilled listener that he was, he knew he wasn’t being heard.
In the end the result was the same: the mansion was magnificent, huge and sprawling. But it didn’t fit together properly. There were stairways that led sideways instead of up. Some rooms had too few walls, or too many. Many rooms had no ceiling, and high above they showed a strange sky full of unfamiliar stars.
“What did they look like?” Dedan asked, beating me to the question. Another pause. “One your size, his arms longer than mine, stronger than me but slow. Slower than you.” Dedan’s expression darkened, as if he couldn’t decide if he had been insulted. “The other was smaller and quicker. Both their swords were broad and thick. Edged on both sides. This long.” He held his hands perhaps three feet apart. I thought the description revealed more about Tempi than the men he fought.
I felt better, not good by any means, but better. Less empty.
Our people and theirs are as different as water and alcohol. In equal glasses they look the same. Both liquid. Both clear. Both wet, after a fashion. But one will burn, the other will not. This has nothing to do with temperament or timing. These two things behave differently because they are profoundly, fundamentally not the same.
I asked a couple questions, but her answers either made no sense or were hopelessly nonchalant. She didn’t know the first thing about the laws of sympathy, or sygaldry, or the Alar. She simply didn’t think there was anything odd about sitting in the forest holding a handful of shadow. First I was offended, then I was terribly jealous. I remembered when I’d found the name of the wind in her pavilion. It had felt as if I were truly awake for the first time, true knowledge running like ice in my blood. The memory exhilarated me for a moment, then left me with a broken chord of loss. My sleeping
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What she was doing with the shadow was called grammarie. When I asked, she said it was “the art of making things be.” This was distinct from glamourie, which was “the art of making things seem.”
“not so. a traveler, yes. a wanderer, no. she moves but cannot freely go.”
stricken.
In my defense, I could have dispensed with the truth entirely and told a much better story. Lies are simpler, and most of the time they make better sense.
“So when I meet a woman, I should simply say, ‘You are beautiful’?” Tempi shook his head. “No. You would say simply ‘beautiful,’ and let the woman decide the rest of what you mean.” “Isn’t that …” I didn’t know the words for “vague” or “unspecific” and had to start again to get my point across. “Doesn’t that lead to confusion?” “It leads to thoughtfulness,” he said firmly. “It is delicate.
“It leads to thoughtfulness,” he said firmly. “It is delicate.
“What if following the Lethani requires me to fight? Should I not take pleasure in it?” “No. You should take pleasure in following the Lethani. If you fight well, you should take pride in doing a thing well. For the fighting itself you should feel only duty and sorrow. Only barbarians and madmen take pleasure in combat. Whoever loves the fight itself has left the Lethani behind.”
“Useful, but beautiful as well.” “Perhaps a thing gains beauty being used.” “Perhaps a thing is used according to its beauty,”
Every culture is different, but one thing is always true: the surest way to give offense is to refuse the hospitality of your host.
“So you have stolen the answers from yourself,” she said with mock seriousness. “You have cleverly fooled us by pulling the answers from your own mind.”
“Part of the problem is with your language,” she said. “Aturan is very explicit. It is very precise and direct. Our language is rich with implication, so it is easier for us to accept the existence of things that cannot be explained.
stone. I would be whole, but I would be less than I am now.”
We finished the dishes together, sharing silence between us. Sometimes that is all you can share.
“Anything that brings two people close together is intimate. A conversation, a kiss, a whisper. Even fighting is intimate.
“You are not wrong in this,” Shehyn said. “But neither is Tempi wrong.” “Victory is always to be sought,” Tempi said. Firm. Shehyn turned to face him. “Success is key,” she said. “Victory is not always needed to succeed.”
“You respect a thing by putting it to good use,”
“There can be many opinions on a thing, but there is only one truth.” Vashet smiled lazily. “And if the pursuit of truth was my goal, that would concern me.”
They seemed to be good people. Most people are if given the chance.
“What fun is there in telling a story if nobody’s listening?”
“I believe everyone has some question that drives them. A question that keeps them awake nights. A question they worry at like a dog with an old bone. If you understand a man’s question, it brings you closer to understanding the man himself.”
“It is disturbing that there might be a secret this important.”
Sometimes leaving is the only thing you can do.
Any question seemed dangerous. Such a discussion would be uncomfortable at best. At worst it might reignite our previous argument, and that was something I was desperate to avoid.
“If whatever you’re going to do is wrong, you might as well do whatever you want.”
